


The Prophet and the Prime

by dramamelon



Series: 500 [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: AU friendly, Angst, Canon Friendly, Fluff, Humor, I really need to pick up my description game., Multi, Oral Sex, Slice of Life, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, humanized valves and spikes, robo-smut, stupid robots, various levels of shippiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9507383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramamelon/pseuds/dramamelon
Summary: A collection of shorts—some connected, some not—following Drift and Rodimus through a wide array of silly hijinks to more somber notes. Pieces range from BroTP to OTP. :D(Rating and tags subject to change.)





	1. Prompt 1 - Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discovery is made upon reclaiming the Lost Light, making Rodimus angry.

Whoever was behind it, Rodimus wasn’t about to buy that it was for non-nefarious reasons. There was just no way in the Pit anyone would do something like this without meaning for it to be hurtful. It didn’t matter that Drift seemed to be taking it all in his usual stoic stride—it was wrong. If Drift wasn't going to get upset about it, _he_ was.

“Don’t worry, Drift,” Rodimus said, slinging his arm around his best friend to rest a comforting hand on his far shoulder. Rodimus didn't know how comforting it actually was, though, seeing as his own frame significantly more tense than Drift's. “I’ll find the glitches that did this and beat the scrap out of them myself. Betcha anything it was Getaway and Atomizer. Those two really don’t like you.”

It was no surprise when Drift shook his head. “Please, don't. None of it was important, anyway. Not really.”

Rodimus didn't know how he was supposed to believe that, looking on the jumbled mess of broken… things that had once been Drift’s possessions. It hadn’t been much, admittedly, but it had all been Drift’s. After exiling him, Rodimus had made certain Drift’s hab was locked down, inaccessible to any of the crew beyond himself. With Rodimus gone? No doubt the afts had taken a gleeful delight in destroying the sanctity of what had become Rodimus’ mournful shrine of regret.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did,” Drift added, giving him a look that included a faint touch of a smirk. “I was never exactly a highly favored mech on board before it happened, after all.”

“Drift, they demolished your hab,” Rodimus said, emphasizing each word with care to make sure they got through Drift’s audials to his brain module. He turned to face Drift, setting his hands on those broad shoulders and meeting his clear blue optics straight on. “They didn’t know you would be coming back, yeah, I’ll admit that, but doesn’t that just make it worse? Like, I don’t know… spitting on your grave or something?”

White hands lifted and curled around Rodimus’ in a decidedly backward display of comfort. “Rodimus, you’re overthinking the situation. Anything I left here in this room, I obviously didn’t really need because I’m doing fine without it. Everything that actually means something?” He lowered his cheek and pressed it against Rodimus’ hand, rubbing against him just enough to set cooling fans clicking on in a quiet whirr. “I’ve still got those.”

“So…," Rodimus started with a grudging huff, knowing Drift would keep on him until he capitulated, "not so tragic?”

Drift's smile was sweet like an energon jelly cube, putting a stutter in Rodimus' spark. “No, not so tragic.”


	2. Prompt 2 - Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus is awesome at meditation. Drift struggles.

Of all the words that might be used to describe Rodimus, perhaps the least likely was serene. Very few ever saw the young, not-quite-Prime the way Drift did, though. He actually liked to think he had just a little bit to do with Rodimus’ calmest moments, wherein Rodimus achieved a personal center so steady that not even mention of his co-captain could tip him into outraged grumbling. That hadn’t been nearly as much of a problem, however, since the events of the Necrobot’s world and the battle against the DJD. Or so Drift had heard—Ratchet proved an entertaining storyteller when correctly prompted, regaling Drift with great gusto about the personality clashes between Rodimus and the former Decepticon leader.

While Drift hadn’t yet confronted his own lingering demons regarding Megatron, it was obvious Rodimus had moved beyond his. Mostly, anyway. Watching Rodimus find stillness lit a bright flame of joy? Hope? Whatever the feeling was in Drift’s spark. He figured that little flame was appropriate, considering Rodimus’ favored detailing. Maybe he might mention that to him, if he ever found the right moment to broach the subject, just to amuse Rodimus.

Settled cross-legged beside him, though, Drift was distracted from his own attempts at meditation. It was far more soothing to watch the passing starlight gleam through the viewing window, flowing silvery light over those deeply missed features in their currently fragile set of contentment. The flutter and whirl the image created in his spark felt near overwhelming in moments like this.

That was another thing Drift wondered if he might ever find the right moment to mention. Maybe. It would take a lot more courage than Drift was feeling ready to scrounge up, though.

“Hey, Drift,” Rodimus suddenly interrupted, thumping him soundly on the pauldron, “why am I the only one getting all meditate-y here?”

Drift blinked and stared at Rodimus. “You’re not.”

“Uh huh, right." Rodimus was anything but convinced, giving him a disbelieving frown.

“Trust me. I’m completely centered right now. My aura is aligned and calm.” Well, that was smooth, Drift berated himself, mentally dragging his palm down his grimacing face. He shook his head and found his smile. “Seriously, don’t worry about me. _You’re_ doing great and that’s good enough today.”

The look that garnered him was pure, unadulterated Rodimus as he chose to respect the boundary for once and Drift cherished it. “Okay, fine. We’ll go with that. For now, anyway, because—being me—I always like to hear how great I am,” he paused and narrowed his optics at Drift, “but you better remember you’re not off the hook yet.”

“Yeah, all right,” Drift agreed with another internal wince, shifting his position just a bit. Like a cyberhound on a strut, Rodimus would latch on and gnaw at a mystery until it gave up its secrets. “For now, let's find our balance again.”


	3. Prompt 7 - Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet suffers.

There was a certain sort of elegance to the stupidity, though Ratchet would never say so aloud. Especially not in the presence of the two perpetrators. They were glitched enough as it was—they didn’t need him inflating their troublemaking egos any more than they already were. Honestly, it had been bad enough when they were just friends. Now that they’d developed into something more? Even the formerly mighty Megatron tucked tail and ran when they walked into a room with a certain glint in their optics and a playful twist to their grins.

Unfortunately, that currently left Ratchet all on his lonesome in the face of the combined idiocy of Rodimus-fragging-Not-Exactly-a-Prime and his lovely conjunx-to-be, Drifty McUsed-to-be-a-Con. Their latest round of hijinks had him at their tender mercies in one of the dark corners of Swerve’s. He huffed out a long and deeply put-upon sigh, hoping he managed to wrangle enough annoyance into the sound that at least one of the morons got the hint and got out of his damn private booth. (Why did he ever decide against his usual spot at the bar? At least there he’d have had an easy escape.) Of course, in keeping with the natural order of their universe, neither did.

“So, I was thinking maybe the red and white with accents of yellow,” Drift said, leaning close on Ratchet’s left and pointing at a swatch of colors that really didn’t mean anything to him.

“And I was thinking that’s not a good idea,” Rodimus contended, so intent on expressing his own thoughts that he was near to sliding into Ratchet’s lap from the right. “I mean, yeah, they’re awesome colors, but Drift would blend right in!”

“So would you!” Drift replied, not giving Ratchet a chance to voice an opinion whether or not he had one. Which, frankly, he didn’t. “Maybe not as badly as I would, true, but still.”

“Well, then, how about we—”

“No, Rodimus,” Drift cut him off, an astoundingly patient look on his face as he leaned farther across Ratchet. He met the grin Rodimus flashed him with a soft laugh and smile, bumping their noses together as he pressed his forehelm against his intended’s. “I already told you, we’re not doing the purple and blue.”

Then, together, they turned to look at him. “So, Ratchet,” Rodimus said while Drift eyed Ratchet with wide and innocent—Ratchet snorted internally at the thought—optics, “what do you think?”

Ratchet just heaved another grumpy sigh and reached for the warmly glowing glass of engex resting on the table between them.


	4. Prompt 14 - Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Megatron's office. Oops, they forgot to lock the door?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first robo-smut! :D Like the tags now say: sticky and humanized parts! Up goes that rating! (Seriously need to pick up my descriptive game again, though.)

Rodimus ate valve like his life depended on it. Knowing he was the preferred target of Rodimus’ practice set Drift’s entire frame aquiver. In fact, it was so good, he had no issue complying with the no spike rule when Rodimus decided he wanted to dive in deep.

The edge of the table crumpled under the force of Drift’s grip, his head falling back as a breathy groan escaped him. It wasn’t the first piece of furniture damaged in the wake of Rodimus’ glossa doing that _thing_ around his anterior node and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Slurping and wet and hot, it was the best. Thing. Ever.

Drift leaned back a bit further on the table, getting himself a better view of Rodimus kneeling between his thighs, face buried in the protective folds of his valve array. His fans worked overtime, his ventilations were reduced to hard panting when he managed to bite back the moans, and he didn’t know how much longer his legs would hold him up with his aft only resting against the edge of the poor table rather than on top of it.

Shifting his feet farther apart, Drift stifled a whimper in his intake when a pair of agile fingers slipped through the copious flood of lubricant dripping from his valve and sank knuckle deep with a squelch. He caught his bottom lip between his dentae and gnawed as Rodimus worked those fingers in conjunction with his mouth. Risking his balance, Drift moved one hand, sliding it over the top of Rodimus’ helm before cupping around the back.

He held him in place, compliance radiating through Rodimus’ field, and worked his hips, grinding against his face with a bit more force than Rodimus could accomplish on his own. Keeping his optics online was a test of strength as pleasure sang through his internals. Oh, this was glorious….

Of course, they were only aware of the unlocked office door opening because they’d set an alarm to ping them if (“ _when_ ,” Rodimus insisted) it happened. If Drift hadn’t already been flushed with pink in the face with the heat of his swiftly rising charge, his embarrassment at being caught by his former leader—and sometimes lover, he’d foolishly admitted to Rodimus—turned more recently co-captain might have been more apparent. As it was, his hips went suddenly still and his hold on Rodimus’ helm slipped.

“Um, hello, sir?” he tried, the words coming out more of a squeak than anything else.

Megatron never even made an attempt to reply, instead continuing to stare with wide optics and a shocked look on his face.

:: _Is he watching?_ ::

Drift couldn’t find the words to answer the comm from Rodimus, optics locked with Megatron’s and his jaw working without sound. He’d known the possibility of Megatron showing up was a very big reality—they were in his office, after all. Having it actually happen was a bit of a charge dampener. Only a bit, though.

The air was cold against his sopping array when Rodimus pulled away to cast a glance over his shoulder, seeking the answer Drift wasn’t giving him. The pinkish hue of the lubricant smeared over his smug face had Drift’s node throbbing and his calipers cycling down on the fingers still pressed inside. He got only the briefest view of Rodimus’ devious grin, Rodimus’ free hand stroking a gentle path along the join of thigh and pelvic structure, before the attack was on again.

Drift gasped and cried out as Rodimus laved and sucked and nipped at node and soft mesh lips with abandon. He stretched Drift’s valve wider with additional fingers, working them fast and hard over the internal sensor clusters while Drift curled forward over him, awash in the sudden return of attentions. The charge that had stuttered with the interruption surged in hard-edged renewal. It spiraled tighter and ever upward, reaching for that towering pinpoint crest that promised such a lush and exhausting tumble of release as he crashed over the other side.

His knees trembled, closer than ever to simply giving out under him. Both hands wrapped around Rodimus’ helm, holding and petting as that mouth devoured him. Condensation trickled along his frame, his ventilations harsher and joined by a distinct keening as Rodimus worked him closer to the edge. His aft slipped a few micrometers lower on the table, warning of his imminent meeting with the floor.

The hand that cupped under his chin and lifted his face, however, was unexpected. Drift had not even noticed Megatron crossing the room or the door closing behind him.

“Was this planned or accidental?” Megatron asked, his powerful voice low and driving. His engine revved and his fans had clicked on, announcing he was, fortunately, not angry for the intrusion on his space. How the mech figured Drift was going to speak at that particular moment, Drift wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t be coherent if he tried. He punctuated a loud slurp from Rodimus down below with a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a disbelieving laugh. Yeah, words not happening. Rodimus curled his fingers just enough to really press against the sensor cluster that most intensely cranked Drift’s shaft, wringing an open-mouthed groan from him.

“Oh, I’ve missed you like this,” Megatron purred, dragging the pad of his thumb across Drift’s bottom lip. He leaned in close enough that Drift could feel the puff of his breath mingling with his own. Megatron’s mouth stretched into a familiar curve, devastating in the level of attraction it flooded through Drift’s already charge-drenched systems. His frame shook and shuddered when Rodimus did the _thing_ again, glossa swirling pure magic over his pulsing node.

Fingers holding tighter around the shape of Rodimus’ helm, Drift pushed into Megatron’s grip and brushed his mouth against that warm smirk. He swiped his glossa over those closed lips, bumping noses as he shifted to nip from the other side.

“Rodimus,” Megatron said against Drift’s mouth, “finish the brat for us.” Then, Megatron overwhelmed him with a melding of their faces as Rodimus obeyed, fingers and mouth escorting Drift into the electric whiteout of overload.

His knees definitely gave up the ghost of holding him upright at that point.


	5. Prompt 23 - Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift's visions are nothing new. They've been there all his life.

Something was wrong with him. Very, very wrong. It wasn’t right for him to be seeing the things he was seeing. And for the whole process to end with him being knocked offline? Drift was scared and quickly becoming more so with each new and increasingly strange flux through his brain module. On top of it, at this point, Drift barely recharged because the daytime fluxes became nighttime purges that were worse when he offlined his optics. Being stuck on the streets and begging for handouts had been bad enough all on its own, before this new affliction struck.

Visions of darkness and death. Pain and monsters. All the things that left him in a state of fear so heavy, Drift almost didn’t know how to continue. They seemed to come at him so randomly, too, leaving him jumping at nonexistent threats more often than real ones. There was no way to hold down a job when Drift couldn’t know when he’d be struck down by the images. Having no job put medical care that might help him entirely out of his reach, trapping him in a vicious cycle—unable to afford the care to get the work that would allow him to afford the care that would….

Drift curled into a corner, wrapping his arms around his knees and hunching in on himself. His battered frame was filthy, his paint chipped and no more than a shadow of the hues it might be on a mech with better standing in the world. He didn’t need a reflection to know his optics were flickering in a way they shouldn’t, his frame on the verge of initiating a shutdown into recharge—or, perhaps, even stasis lock—whether he wanted it or not.

“Hey,” a voice broke into his fading consciousness, “you look like you could use a little help.”

He knew what the guy was looking for. Dealers had approached him before, a sure sign he looked particularly vulnerable to those around him. Drift understood that better than anyone might think. His naivete did not extend to ignoring he was easy prey at that moment. In all honesty, Drift didn’t know that he wanted to be strong right then. He was feeling quite soundly beat down and ready for near any sort of change.

“C’mon, pretty, what’s it gonna hurt to give it a shot?” the mech, a strange combination of slick yet shabby, urged. His hand came into Drift’s view, holding a single circuit booster vial in the middle of his palm. The grime of the Dead End clung to the seams between the small plates over his fingers, masking the color just as well as it did on Drift’s own armor. “I’ll give you this one to try, no wires attached.”

When Drift hesitated, the mech reached down and took Drift’s hand in his own, holding it palm up with an odd gentleness. Drift didn’t know what to make of it. He cycled his optics, focusing on the booster for a moment before lifting his gaze up to meet those of the dealer. His mouth worked, but no sound made it through his vocalizer.

The dealer smiled a little more, the tired plating around his dull purple optics crinkling in the way of age. Drift knew it likely wasn’t a symptom of the actual passage of time, but rather vorns of hard use, like it would be for himself, if he made it that far. “Need to know how it’s done?” the dealer asked. “I can show you.”

And thus the first instance of Drift escaping the terrible visions that plagued his mind came to be. None of what happened to him beyond the escape mattered from that point on. Frankly, he didn't remember much of it. Then fate put him in the hands of a do-gooder cop and his bleeding heart medic friend.

“You’re better than this, kid,” the medic told him. “You're special. Don't waste it like this.”

Or something like that. Drift didn't really want to think about it, not knowing the dark purges of his mind no longer had a barrier to hold them back. Before he could scrape together the shanix for another hit, though—living every day with the horrors in his head—Drift found himself drawn into the gentling grace of a mech who introduced himself as Gasket. Under Gasket’s guidance, Drift found his way out from under the darkness, locking away the vicious sequences where they couldn’t bother him. Or, at least, not as often as they had in the past.

And then, Gasket, like the boosters before, were yanked unceremoniously away from him. He kept the darkness away on his own this time, however, through anger that burned so fierce as to threaten the stability of his spark, or so it felt at times. This anger began the next and longest stretch of his life, spanning four million years under the guidance of a silver tongued miner turned rebel rouser turned tyrant. Megatron and Drift’s—no, Deadlock’s—loyalty to him kept the dreams of both on cycle and off cycle at bay so long as to make them nearly forgotten, recalled only in the quietest of moments. Moments so rare as to be nonexistent among the Decepticon army, really.

In all honesty, his time among the Decepticons gave him much more pressing and real nightmares to worry about. Despite initial favor from Megatron, including the honor of a new name bestowed, Drift fell far too easily into the darkness that overwhelmed the once righteous Decepticon army. With every bot out for themself long before the end of the war, Drift simply had no time to even consider worrying himself over bad dreams. Those haunting visions that came over him during periods of wakefulness were ignored for the nonsense they obviously showed themselves to be. Things that happened only in his head were nothing in the face of things that happened in reality.

It was in the presence of Wing and the other Knights of New Crystal City, though, that Drift fell under the brutal assault of his mind all over again. Without the stabilizing force of the cruelty of his fellow Decepticons around him, Drift found himself unable to maintain the strength of his anger.

One early morning, forced from his recharge by a particularly vengeful replay of his nighttime terrors, strong arms wrapped around Drift and cradled him close to a frame warm and purring with life. He clung with tightly curled fingers, burying his face into the offered shoulder. His audials slowly made out the voice of Wing murmuring words of comfort, barely audible over the sound of his hard-running engine and gasping for air to cool his overheated systems.

“Why?” he asked in a small voice better suited to a sparkling, almost sobbing. He’d never admit to the behavior later on, but right then, it was all he could do. “Why does this happen to me?”

Drift was not surprised when Wing had no answer for him, but the matter didn't rest there. Though he continued to fight against all the society of the city represented to him, Drift spent his nights in the arms of the mech he did his best to defeat during the day. His dreams didn't go away this time. Under the soothing tutelage of Wing, tormentor and not-quite-friend, Drift learned how to take control of his daylight visions and nighttime terrors.

And then, just as Drift realized he was starting to see New Crystal City and those within it as maybe something worth his time, Lockdown happened. He dealt as he always did, forceful and not about to bow before someone that placed himself so high above, but still acting to save his own frame. Drift spilled secrets, his inner darkness brought to the surface in the face of the bounty hunter. His return to the city, however, was filled with doubt and regret, the nascent change sown into him blooming the closer he got. He might not have realized so soon that he cared as he did, though not soon enough, were it not for Wing.

In the aftermath, Drift couldn't accept the succor offered by the city leader. Heartening as finally earning the goodwill of Dai Atlas was to his spark, Drift knew staying was more than he could do. Others would come for the city if he stayed. If one mech could find him, others could do it, as well. Others that might not know when to back away and count their losses, like Lockdown.

That night on his small shuttle away from the planet, Drift’s dreams were not of the terrible vision that had plagued him from his earliest days, but a replay of the horrors already come to pass. Wing’s teachings did not help defeat the demon nightmare that was Wing’s own death. For the first time in his functioning, Drift wished for those visions of darkness and his own impending end over the so recently lived truth.

As the days passed, though, the visions reasserted themselves, as they always had. This time, however, significant changes left him more bewildered than anxious. The biggest change was the appearance of another bot, their appearance undefined, standing with him to face down the looming miasma that fueled Drift’s terror. He wasn’t alone, this time. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

And then Drift met Kup, a creaky old Autobot that didn’t even flinch on learning who Drift had once been. The visions settled in the embrace of the Wreckers. Atonement became his priority, the dreams slipping away as he sought either redemption or oblivion for his blood-soaked past.

He lost track of every time he threw himself into danger. It wasn’t unusual, though, in this unit. The Wreckers were well-known on both sides of the war as decidedly reckless. Drift, perhaps, took it further than most, but no one ever attempted to pull him back from the edge he was riding. The harder he pushed, the less frequent his mind filled with images of Wing, the fewer times he was plagued by the still unexplained visions.

When the Prime chose him to delve into the depths of Cybertron as the darkness of their newest enemy flowed over the surface of the ruined planet, random though his inclusion in the small party was, Drift knew something was different. A tremulous vibration filtered through the atmosphere around him, sending an anxious tremble through his spark. His answer to why came the moment Rodimus in his red and gold glory defended Drift’s right to stand beside the leader of the Autobots. The younger mech wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest speaker, but Drift latched onto the unbidden acceptance faster than he’d taken to anything in his life.

He knew vaguely of Rodimus from time both spent on Earth, but had never interacted with him. Truthfully, Drift couldn't recall ever actually seeing him beyond something in the distance. Then, _things_ happened, as usual. _Things_ always happened sooner or later. And the advent of shoving his Great Sword nearly through his spark to avoid becoming a pawn of darkness was definitely a big _thing_.

Before his frame offlined, a vision lit up his glitching HUD. The mysterious shadow mech stood revealed, standing beside him to combat the monsters that had brought such relenting fear into his life. Rodimus. Gone was the overwhelming terror that nothing could be done, that only pain and death awaited him, replaced instead by a seed of hope, a newfound strength.

When wakefulness returned, Drift woke with the unshakeable knowing that wherever Rodimus might lead, he would follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an idea I'd really love to expand into something longer at some point, but I needed to get at least this much out of my head. :)


End file.
